


Conserere

by AFullRiggedShip (Wintermane)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: AU, Complete, Fluff, Hannibal - Freeform, Hannigram - Freeform, M/M, Murder Family, No Sex, One Shot, Post-Series, Will Graham - Freeform, post-show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-04-26 07:58:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4996858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wintermane/pseuds/AFullRiggedShip
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will happens to be good at the harpsichord.<br/>Hannibal makes a few mistakes.<br/>Short. Complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conserere

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bluetears07](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluetears07/gifts).



> This started as my own terrible prompt after talking with my bestie, and working on some new Hannibal art. Really short, I may do things in the same 'verse later on I guess this is more of an outline. Note: whooaaaa sorry everyone I just noticed how weird my formatting got. Sorry! I'll try and fix it up.
> 
> As usual: no beta, no sex, fluff, and possibly a load of errors.  
> Enjoy~
> 
>  
> 
> "conserere"  
> (to tie, to join, to weave)

I. allegro tempo

“You’re a natural, Will.”  Hannibal is standing in the new kitchen, their kitchen. There is stew simmering away and he’s holding a sauté pan in one hand and a olive wood spoon delicately between deft fingers. Asparagus bubbles happily in the pan, soaking up a rather large amount of butter.  And then there’s Will, sitting on a spindly legged bench in front of the beautiful cherry wood, his fingers carefully mimicking those of a long lost, yet fondly remembered master. He is wrapped in a only slightly hideous sweater, it is winter.  
Hannibal had been the one to suggest it, at first Will entertained the notion, as a way to perhaps have something else in common. But as the first tentative steps became longer strides, Will found himself able to drown himself in the flow of hollow wood and haunting notes.  There were always some bad days, the days when Will retreated into himself. He would sit staring out of the second floor bay window, looking out at the green misty fields and not move for hours. Hannibal often tried to coax him out of his headspace, and it was in one of these attempts that he managed to get Will downstairs with the echoing sound of the harpsichord, lukewarm tea, and biscuits.  
“You’ve really improved over the past month, perhaps we should have some friends to dinner this holiday.” Hannibal plates the asparagus with a quick flip of his wrist, the spears cascade from the pan. “You could play for them.”  
“We could,” Will responds pressing his lips into a thin line, “have friends to dinner.” A small smile flits across Hannibal’s face, “here I was being serious, Will. It would be delightful to cook for others again. As a family does.” He glanced up, as the sound of wood raking sharply against wood sounded over the quiet sounds of the kitchen. Will was standing, the bench at an odd angle. He didn’t speak, only stared out over the fairly empty music room, and then made his way to the dinner table. It has begun to snow.

 

II. minuet

Will takes a seat and picks at his cuff a habit that Hannibal does not precisely remember when it formed. He tends to do this when he is upset, but also when he is nervous. The nervous kind is usually better than the upset kind, Hannibal has decided since recognizing the trait. "I am sorry, Will, I did not mean to imply anything more by that statement." A small exhale. Sometimes Will Graham is easy to read. 

Hannibal serves dinner with less flourish than usual, and as he sets Will's plate in front of him, he lightly presses his face into his messy brown hair. A rare show of affection at the dinner table. The dinner continues in silence, surprisingly enough Will is the one to break the soft clink of silverware on expensive china. "I suppose we could have someone to dinner." Hannibal lifts an eyebrow, and gives Will a small nod of his head. "Of course, Will, we can have anyone you like."

It is eleven, and the snow is still coming down. The clock on the mantle of the study chimes. Hannibal pours passito into a small glasses, two, one for himself and one for Will. He walks to the study where Will is curled up with a book, watching sparks from the fire pop as they hit the blackened wall. Hannibal settles next to him and hands him the glass, for a moment Will does not notice and the older man sees the age of Will's face, the creasing by his eyes, and the years that probably had been torn from under him when they had first met. There is a tightening in his chest, only for that second, even less than a second, but the same one that had struck him before they had tumbled from the cliff into the sea. The thought of Will dying before him. "Will," he murmurs, and that moment breaks. Will's eyes widen as he reaches for the glass and doesn't notice the way Hannibal looks at him. They read in silence for many hours.

 

III. sonata

Deep in the house, the clock chimes it's early morning call. The glasses glint in winter moonlight and the last embers breathe their last orange glow. Will Graham wakes from a deep sleep. He is still in the study, his book carefully placed on a rather excessive end table that Hannibal was oddly fond of. There are two large tapestry style blankets piled on top of him, and a tiny surge of affection rises from his stomach. But what was the reason that Will had come from such deep slumber only to wake in the early morning? He swings his feet onto the floor and the cool wood wakes the last of dreamless hours away. With the cold comes another kind, deep in his bones, the sort that he's been slowly warming over the years, the years since for that brief second he had one, without the other. "It's alright, Will," he thinks she'd say, "It's alright to be happy without me." "Don't say it like that," he says through clenched teeth, "it's not like that."

It is four in the morning as Will pads through deep echoing rooms, and comes to stand in front of the harpsichord. He has one of the blankets wrapped around him, and his socked toes stick out from beneath. There is only a little light from the windows, the high moon and snow drifts cast short shadows around the room. Hannibal has become a deep sleeper, no longer watching or being watched, Will is his guard, but so often these days, Will also falls into deep sleep beside him. So Hannibal does not wake when Will tries to gently scoot the bench back and fails. Hannibal does not wake when Will trips on the blanket trying to get a seat and curses quietly into the echoing room. He does not wake at Will's fingers first touching ivory keys.

What does wake Hannibal starts as a dream. A dream of golden halls, warm and inviting, and then something in the back of his mind like a sickness seems to dim them, and as they fade he wakes. He wakes to the sound of Will playing in the deep shadow of the house, their house. At first he lays in the haze of sleep trying to decide what he is playing, Bach? Haydn? The crisp notes have pauses between and there are so many moments when Hannibal feels he has drifted off only to be woken up. The North wind gives way to a freeze.

 

IV. trio

The seventh time it happens, Hannibal forces himself to rise. It is predawn this time, their holiday party ran long into the night, somehow Will had persuaded Hannibal to have a seven course meal with very little meat. It was sort of a victory for the both of them, as everyone actually had a lovely time. They had invited some local neighbors all of whom were bright, but quiet and kept to themselves mostly. None of them ever questioned the two men living in the large house by themselves far off the main road. The clock reads six, and a purple glow is edging at the horizon. Hannibal pulls on a dressing gown, and pads softly from the room. 

He avoids the stair that creaks, and slowly edges open the door. Will looks like a lumpy sort of snowman sitting perched with the blanket pooling around his waist and tumbling of the sides of the tiny bench. He's playing in a rumpled button down, half unbuttoned, with his hair matted to one side. His fingers move deftly, and he has his eyes closed maybe in concentration, or perhaps just to understand the feeling more.

It was the second time, when Hannibal had fully managed to wake up, he had realized with little surprise, but quite a bit of satisfaction that Will, during the nights seemed to take up composing. It was the third time that Hannibal had realized that the only thing Will played was haunting and empty, loving, but fraught. It was the fifth time that Hannibal realized that Will was playing for Abigail. It is the sixth time that Hannibal lays on his side, the ice crystals in the window obscured by the cloudiness in his eyes.

 

V. minuet

"I didn't hear you get up." Is all Will says when he finds Hannibal in the kitchen at eight, the sun cascades brightly into the kitchen. After he plays, he often retreats to the study to nap, but this time he had come in to make coffee only to find Hannibal cracking eggs into a bowl. "I did not want to disturb you, " Hannibal responds, "How would you like your eggs, Will?" Will runs a hand through his hair, "it doesn't matter? How ever you going to cook them?" Hannibal gives him a demure smile and nod of his head, as Will fumbles for coffee. 

Will clears his throat as Hannibal sits down at the table, "I'm sorry if I woke you up." He mutters, looking at his perfectly cooked eggs and fresh baked scone. At this moment, Will Graham does not look old, if anything he looks like a child who has been found doing something that they ought not to do. "It is quite alright, Will, though I did wonder if you would ever tell me what you were doing, or if you thought I always slept through it." Will recedes farther into his hair. "I didn't really think about whether I'd wake you up after the first time," he says very quietly, "it was more of a compulsion." He looks up through shaggy bangs, and seems sheepish, "but it's not like you wouldn't eventually notice." "I only worry if you're getting enough sleep, Will, you know that I do not mind hearing you play." Hannibal pauses, not fully sure if he should say the next thing that he his thinking, "I know you still miss Abigail." 

Will's cup clatters into it's saucer, his eyes darting up to meet Hannibal's, he is visibly shaken, but his eyes are serious, "How can you not? She did everything right, everything you asked, and still-" he doesn't continue. He recedes. There is a moment where Hannibal thinks of trying to talk to Will, and there is a moment where the young man who intrigued him sits there, with his eyes shining, but full of fire, and ready to argue. There is a moment when Hannibal sees the Will from before, the one who found him out, who fought against him, who caught him, and then there is Will in his baggy cable knit sweater and wild hair. Will with bags under his eyes, and a tinge of early grey in his hair, and who is still sitting there eating eggs with black coffee and who dislikes using saucers but who still continues to do so. 

Hannibal closes his eyes, "I do miss her, Will. You are not wrong." He pushes back his chair, and stands by Will, and they are like that for a second, with Hannibal standing, and Will sitting, and then as Will opens his mouth to speak, Hannibal kneels down beside him. Will closes his mouth. "Sometime will you let me listen to what you have written for her?" Hannibal thumbs the back of Will's hand, "you are a natural after all, I am sure it is wonderful." Will ducks his head again, but this time Hannibal sees a small flash of white teeth, and as he answers Hannibal hears the barest smile, "Yeah, I can do that, Hannibal." Outside, it has begun to thaw.


End file.
